Work Text:
I need to come over
Straightforward and non-negotiable.
I need you to make sure I eat dinner
Cooking, leftovers, takeout, she doesn’t care.
I need to not think
That’s the hardest one to type out, the one makes her eyes burn and her next swallow hurt and her chest tighten like someone closed her up with dozens of gauze pads still crammed inside.
She watches Trinity open the messages from four floors down, then waits through several long seconds of the typing bubble.
need a ride?
Something flares through her nervous system, something big and hot and sharp that barely resists pitching her phone across the locker room, because if she needed Trinity to drive, she would have included that in her list. The list is exactly what she needs, nothing more and nothing less and nothing else is allowed to be offered or even freely given, because then she’ll have to think about it and she does not want to think about it which is why she just said as much.
No
Yolanda sends the text and puts her phone on do not disturb, then thinks better of it and turns her phone off completely. She scrubbed out twenty minutes ago and told Shamsi that she would complete the patient chart tomorrow, and because Shamsi knows that Yolanda can recall precise details from years-old surgeries that some attendings have already forgotten from last week, she nods once without breaking stride in the corridor.
She scrubbed out twenty minutes ago, and she took twice as long as is medically required. Not with any premeditated intention, but impulsively, and only once she got to the final rinse; she’d found herself just letting the water run and sitting in a visceral awareness that this process held no risk. If you missed a step, if you didn’t spend enough time getting under your nails, if you didn’t go high enough on your arms, you could simply adjust. Start over. Do it again with the proper adjustments. There is always room for error, so long as you catch and address the error before you enter the OR.
The procedure had gone so badly, had shaken Yolanda so thoroughly, that she’d managed to find relief in washing her fucking hands. So badly that she knows the nurses will talk about it, which means night shift will find out within the hour, which means her phone will be buzzing with concern from people whose concern will not be helpful to her right now. She doesn’t need Emery to tell her it was an unavoidable outcome or Robby to remind her that the patient had a long and difficult health history, because Yolanda knows both of those things are true, and those words being directed at her instead of coming from within her won’t change their shape, won’t change why they’re being said in the first place.
Because she didn’t even get to fix the things she was going to fix, because the complications began immediately after she opened him up and they did not stop until his heartbeat did. Three hours and fifty-two minutes of chaos, of being confined to a prison of reactivity, of every single individual step being forced rather than chosen.
Yolanda can handle chaos that’s malleable enough to bully into control.
She can handle chaos if she gets the final say.
She can handle chaos that’s winnable.
None of those things happened in that OR. She went in with a rigid understanding that she was going to locate the problems and solve them once and for all, that this man just needed a good enough surgeon with good enough instincts to achieve a good enough outcome, that Yolanda and her brain and her hands could finally pivot him toward recovery. She legitimately, sincerely believed that she would find a way.
She did not find a way.
She could not find a way.
It wasn’t even a dead end; it was a car with no gas in the tank.
A spluttering ignition that only yielded to silence.
He never had a chance.
And now Yolanda has a migraine settled just above her brainstem.
The extra strength Tylenol she keeps on the top shelf of her locker goes into her bag instead of her mouth. She’d swallow it dry if she had any faith at all that it would help on its own, but she knows her body needs more—food, sleep, and somewhere to put her aching, overflowing insides—and she simply cannot handle any other problems going unsolved tonight.
Scrubs stay on, hair stays up, doesn’t even change her shoes, because if she makes herself any softer in any way before she gets to Trinity’s apartment she will not survive it. Clutches her keys tighter than she needs to and takes the stairs to the parking garage because the concept of standing in an elevator that might stutter or stall or completely break down makes her want to vomit, plus walking keeps her busy, keeps her moving, keeps her intact.
I’m leaving now
The text is sent once she’s in her car with the engine running, out of a somewhat irrational fear that some other thing will go wrong on the way there and it’s worth establishing a timeline so that Trinity will notice if Yolanda takes too long and take the appropriate steps to investigate.
Somewhat irrational. She knows this. She’s aware. She understands it on an objective, clinical, post-therapy level, just like she understands that her body will not allow itself to operate this vehicle unless her brain is satisfied that the relevant precautions have been handled. Precautions like texting Trinity so she knows to expect Yolanda in ten to fifteen minutes, and putting Trinity's address into Maps so she won’t have to improvise if she comes across an accident or closure or detour, and holding her breath as she reverses out of the spot and navigates down to the main level and carefully pulls out into the street.
(Just being careful, just in case, just in case, just in case.)
.
Yolanda uses her spare key to get in because she doesn’t want to knock and wait. Takes off her shoes and sets them next to Trinity’s and then arranges both pairs to be perfectly parallel, then decides that Whitaker’s might as well match too—
“I ordered Chipotle,” Trinity announces from the couch. “ETA is about half an hour.”
She doesn’t say anything because what Trinity said wasn’t a question, which means nothing is required of Yolanda, which means there’s no need for her to fill the silence. Instead she files the information away and hangs her bag next to Trinity’s rain jacket and it immediately bothers her that the bag’s width makes the jacket hang crooked, so she tugs the jacket forward where it can settle against the bag instead of around it. The fix is small but satisfying, so satisfying, because—
(She did not find a way.
She could not find a way.)
Yolanda hears the faint, strangled noise that leaves her throat, and then she hears Trinity shift to look at her, and then she hears her own teeth clack together as her jaw clenches with the effort of staying intact.
Just a little bit longer.
Because it’s not happening in Trinity’s entryway, so close to the front door, with such a thin boundary between herself and the world in which—
(She did not find a way.
She could not find a way.)
Yolanda pushes to her feet and walks right past Trinity the exact same way she walks through the ED, steady and calm and with the expectation that nothing and no one will get between her and where she is going. Typically, that’s a trauma bay; right now, it’s Trinity’s bedroom. Around the corner, immediate left, sleep shorts in the second drawer from the top and the worn UCLA hoodie hanging on the closet door, both set neatly on the bed, soft and clean and untainted.
Her instrument tray for this impending procedure.
(Scrubbing in.)
Scrubs off.
(Gown on.)
Stepping into the shorts.
(Left glove, right glove.)
Sweatshirt eased over her head, hands tucked inside the sleeves.
(Mask, glasses, cap.)
Hood tugged up, drawstrings pulled taut, trapping the collar between her teeth.
(Entering the surgical field.)
Trinity’s bed is unmade, linens still tangled in a nearly perfect frame of where she woke up twelve hours ago, and Yolanda arranges herself accordingly.
Curls onto her side.
Brings the covers up to her chin.
And she breathes.
Not slow.
Not steady.
Not quiet.
Tight and uneven and trembling, chest so preoccupied with itself that she’s not even crying yet, like the tears have been told to wait for a signal that they’re free to join. She takes the sleeve cuffs and the collar and the blankets and presses all three layers of fabric over her mouth.
(Gauze over an open wound.
Doesn’t stop the bleeding; just soaks it up, keeps it contained.)
Trinity pads into the room, closes the door, and slips in beside her.
(Slows it down long enough to repair the damage.)
Light pressure on her wrist, Trinity touching but not forcing the hand away, just creating a connection.
It’s enough to make Yolanda’s breath stall in her chest, to make her fingers curl into tight knuckles, and to release the first wave of tears.
“Fuck,” she rasps, and her teeth practically chatter as she sucks in more air, hides her face in the curve of Trinity’s neck, feels two arms wrap around her, feels her own legs fold until Yolanda is nothing but a trembling ball of miserable exhaustion tucked against a much steadier body. She cries her guts out; cries about patients who were fucked long before they got to her OR and about time of death never bothering to account for all the time spent trying to prevent it and about how, if Yolanda had her way, those three words would never be spoken about a human body her hands had been inside.
She cries until her stomach hurts. Until she starts to overheat inside the sweatshirt. Until she abruptly remembers that her hair is still in work mode, and that awareness feels like some part of her is still being held hostage by the hospital, and her whole frame stiffens against Trinity’s. She reaches up with a shaky hand to wrestle the hood open and off, then feels for Trinity’s hand and places it around her single bun.
Works to make her voice usable.
“Fix it,” Yolanda croaks, a question and an instruction and a plea all at the same time, before quickly grabbing hold of Trinity again.
Just as if they were side by side in a trauma bay, Trinity’s fingers get to work: dextrous and confident and intuitive as they locate and remove each bobby pin first, then stretch the elastic to maneuver it around and off, then blunt nails dancing gently along Yolanda’s scalp to help the curls fall free. She nods a little under Trinity’s chin so she keeps carding and combing and de-tangling as best she can without an actual brush, and eventually the touches slow to relaxing strokes that have Yolanda’s shoulders releasing a tension she didn’t notice until it wasn’t there anymore.
She feels Trinity lean away and glances up to watch her set the elastic and bobby pins on the nightstand.
And then eye contact—avocado green meeting watery, red-tinged chocolate—and Trinity seeming to just… take her in.
“Yolanda,” she says a few beats later, soft and warm and knowing.
(Hi.
There you are.
I see you.
Not Dr. Garcia; not the pile of dirty scrubs on the floor.
You’re Yolanda.
And I see you.)
All Yolanda can do is nod.
Then lick the salt from her lips.
Then a sniffle, then a bone-tired sigh.
“Bath,” she breathes, her second question-instruction-plea of the night, and the single syllable broken in half as it leaves her throat.
“I’ll set it up,” Trinity confirms and kisses Yolanda’s forehead.
She leaves the room.
Yolanda cries for another seven minutes.
.
By the time she drags herself to the bathroom, Trinity is waiting for her in boxers and a sports bra. She doesn’t know when Trinity changed, but the corner of her mouth twitches at the Spider-man action poses spread across Trinity’s thighs as she monitors the water temperature.
Normally Yolanda sheds her clothes faster than Trinity’s jaw can hit the floor, but tonight she just stands awkwardly with her arms crossed over her chest, drawing a complete blank for what to do next. The trek down the hall cost her precious mental energy—each step forward was its own separate process to execute, and once she crossed the threshold and wood switched to tile, her body seemed to decide that was the end of that and killed the engine without Yolanda’s permission.
She blinks at Trinity with heavy eyelids, then looks at the tub, then looks at the floor.
Then hands at her hips.
Body heat coming in close.
A kiss on her cheek.
“Fine, I’ll take your clothes off,” she teases quietly in Yolanda’s ear. “Twist my arm, why dontcha.”
She still pulls away to look at Yolanda for a silent check-in, and Yolanda nods. Trinity’s hands drift up to Yolanda’s wrists and slowly guide them apart, their fingers tangling automatically and Trinity holding on so she can help Yolanda lift her arms up. She kisses her other cheek before finding the hem of the sweatshirt and then carefully easing it up, around Yolanda’s head, and off.
Trinity’s eyes don’t stray from Yolanda’s as she tosses the hoodie to the floor. Then she brings Yolanda’s arms down to settle on her own shoulders so Yolanda can stay balanced as Trinity gets the shorts off and nudges them out of the way. When she stands up straight again, she’s already holding out Yolanda’s elastic, which Yolanda takes from her and uses to pull her back into a loose, messy bun. Before she can overthink, it she turns toward the tub and gets both feet inside and slowly lowers herself down into the perfect heat.
But then everything stops.
Yolanda swears she’d planned on reclining against the back of the tub and trying to let this be comfortable instead of controlled, but instead she finds herself sitting in the middle with her knees held to her chest and no intention at all of relaxing her posture. She clenches her jaw and rubs the back of her neck hard with both hands, but all she can think about is—
(just letting the water run—
if you missed a step—
adjust—
start over—
do it again—
just letting the water run—
if you missed a step—
adjust—
start over—
do it again—
start over—
do it again—)
“You with me, babe?”
She blinks and sucks in a breath and then swallows loudly. Lifts her eyes just enough to see that Trinity is straddling the edge of the tub, one leg in the water and the other foot planted on the bath mat, a fresh washcloth waiting patiently just in front of the seam of her shorts. Blinks again and watches her own tears plunge down into the suds below.
“It shouldn’t feel like this,” Yolanda forces out, strained and rough, and has to swallow again at the lump in her throat. “He was never gonna make it. I know that. I understand that,” she acknowledges, shakes her head just a little, rests her palms on her knees and splays her fingers out before curling them back in hard. “But it’s not just that we lost him, it’s…” One ragged breath, then two, then three. “My skin is… fucking crawling, and I can’t—I scrubbed for ten fucking minutes and still wanted to—” She nearly chokes on the words. “Wanted to keep going.”
“What made you stop?”
Yolanda chews her bottom lip and almost rolls her eyes at herself. “Couldn’t text you with wet hands.”
Trinity shifts her leg forward just enough to touch her big toe to Yolanda’s under the water. “I’m proud of you.”
“That’s stupid,” she mutters.
“Rain showerheads are stupid,” Trinity counters. “You are fucking brilliant, and sometimes you wash your hands for ten minutes instead of five, and that’s okay.”
Yolanda says nothing.
Trinity finds more words.
“Look, I know you feel like you did something wrong,” she says quietly. “But as far as coping mechanisms go… that’s, like, the least harmful way of getting control back, in my humble opinion.” She worries her lips and leans forward, hands on her knees and elbows locked. “You cut off your own spiral, you told me what you needed, and now you’re letting me do it. That’s still hard for me on a good day.”
Yolanda automatically shakes her head. “What you go through is completely different,” she argues with a moderately steadier voice. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
Trinity settles back against the wall and brings her outside leg up to lie flat along the edge. “You first, Yola.”
She feels her cheeks burn at the checkmate, but rather than try to grumble her way out of it, she just leans over and rests the side of her head against Trinity’s thigh.
“You take really good care of me,” she says softly.
“Eh,” Trinity shrugs, “you give really good instructions.”
But her face holds so much fondness in this moment that she’s not fooling anyone, and Yolanda huffs out a small, amused sound. “Can’t you just tell me you love me like a normal person?”
“I can, but I wanted to make you laugh first.”
The words are so sincere and so unbearably Trinity that Yolanda has no choice but to nuzzle into the soft skin above her knee and press a gentle kiss to one of her favorite barely-visible freckles.
“I love you,” Trinity murmurs shortly after.
Yolanda feels it all the way down to her toes.
Looks up at Trinity.
Misses her, somehow.
“C’mere,” she says and gingerly moves back to make more room, then feels something very specific happen in her chest when Trinity doesn’t have to be told twice. She steps fully into the tub and then plops herself into the water, boxers and all, until their knees are touching and their breath mixes and the tip of Trinity’s nose brushes against her own. “Say it again.”
Foreheads touching, lips making contact so light that it’s not quite a kiss, the slow realization that no degree of closeness will ever be enough.
Trinity kisses her then, slow and tender and careful like she needs every single individual moment of it to be perfect.
Like whatever happened to Yolanda tonight, she wants desperately to fix the problem, stitch up the wound, minimize scarring, develop a recovery plan…
Yolanda thinks she just might find a way.